


Heat That Drives the Light

by cloudings



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, King-Beyond-the-Wall, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 08 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 07:39:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20720561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudings/pseuds/cloudings
Summary: The cold that is North of the Wall is unforgiving. The nights are long and freezing.Tormund warms Jon up.





	Heat That Drives the Light

**Author's Note:**

> a lot of my fics got delete recently so i had to reupload all of them, but FINALLY here’s one of my new ones. don’t really know what i was thinking with this other than i wanna fuck jon snow.  
enjoy!  
come talk to me on twitter @greyclouding !

“How much longer will we be walking?” Jon asks, his eyes laid upon Tormund’s back. His gaze flutters down to the woman beside his horse, stumbling along with a young boy’s legs upon her heaved shoulders. 

“Not long now,” Tormund answers without looking back. “Another fortress, I remember. Enough to hold us for a while. We can rest there.”

Jon hears the sigh of relief from the woman and allows himself a smile. The boy on her shoulders is threading his tiny fingers through her pretty strands of bark-coloured hair. He tries not to stare for too long, though the woman is thick with beauty, her cheeks full with pink flush in the cold and her eyelashes long and dark. He bites his lip when his mind forces the fantasy of the depths below her thick clothes. She was slim, his evil mind notes, yet he wonders if all of her was so slender. 

He forces his mind clean and his eyes forward in time to see Tormund impressing upon him a smirk with one eyebrow raised in suggestion. Jon tightens his grip around the reigns on his horse and shoots a look of warning back at the other man, though the corner of his mouth twitches slightly in reciprocation.

*

When they do finally arrive at the so-called ‘fortress,’ Jon finds himself slightly surprised by the size of it. He wasn't expecting a castle, but the building was no bigger than Jon’s bedroom back at Winterfell. There wasn’t to be room.

“Women and children will take the inside. The men will reside in the tents,” Jon instructs, hopping down off of his horse. “We haven’t enough for one each, so pick a partner.”

His words were met with a congregation of mutters; some men grumbling about not getting to lay in the same hall as the women; the women ever so thankful; the children whimpering from fatigue. It was nightfall now. 

“We need to find us some more food,” Tormund says as he approaches Jon, still remaining on his steed. “We’re low again.”

Jon looks down at the ground for a split second before nodding, promising, “First thing tomorrow. We need to get some sleep.”

“Share my tent, little crow,” Tormund proposes, and Jon can’t see a downside to it. Tormund’s tent is easily the largest of them, though not particularly impressive. It would hold the two of them, but barely. 

“Thank you,” Jon says, nodding and smiling as he ties down his horse to a post nearby. 

“That’s no skin off my back. No feather off a’ yours, eh?” He winks. When Jon finishes securing his horse, he’s already setting the tent up next to an old, greying tree trunk. 

He wonders of his sisters. Is Arya fairing well upon a ship? He was not surprised of her choosing, he remembers, but after hearing of all of her endeavours since their separation, all Jon had wanted to do was wrap her up and make her his little sister once more. What she had become was amazing; striking; but Jon relished in the happy memories they had together, of sharing hidden jokes and training sessions. She had been so innocent. He mourns for what she had seen. 

And Sansa. Queen in the North. He cannot fault it, he knows there was no better person suited for the job. She had always wanted to be a Queen, and though her love for Jon had been lacking whilst growing up with him, their reconciliation and working together had given him a new sense of love for the woman. He mourns, too, for her vanishing of innocence, and reminisces of her girlish fantasies; of marrying a great King and becoming the woman of the house; knitting and bearing many children for all. She had instead seen the wrong side of royalty; the insane, inhumane side, and they had made sure to scatter blood on the white of her childhood. Jon feels his fist clench as he remembers Ramsay, and all that he had done. Whilst the protective side of him wishes that Sansa need have not watched and initiated his so violent death, he cannot deny that there is a sick satisfaction within that fact. That was when he had known his sister had changed. 

He wonders, too, of Bran. Sitting upon the Iron Throne, however metaphorically, is he becoming a fit ruler? Perhaps, Jon entertained, the boy is watching him even now; one of these ratty black birds having been taken over by his powers; that of which Jon still had trouble understanding. 

He releases a long breath and watches as it flies out of his mouth into the cold evening air. If he focuses, he can even hear the distant chatter from the tents over the mixture of the harsh wind and the clatter of his own mind.

“Crow,” he hears Tormund beckon. “Are you going to help me put this fucking tent up, or stand around like a pretty whore waiting on a corner?”

Jon rolls his eyes and approaches him. For all of the years that the man has been putting up tents, he’s leaving a lot to be desired. It’s half-fallen, dented at the rooftop, and a lot smaller than Jon had remembered. 

“Perhaps a whore would have a better lodge than this,” he teases, one eyebrow raised. “You call this a pitched tent?”

“No,” the large man replies, and wiggles his eyebrows in such a way that Jon chokes on his breath. “ _ This _ is a pitched tent.” He points downwards, and Jon feels the need to avert his eyes out of modesty. He hadn’t a clue why the man was erect; nor why he had felt the need to share the information with his tentmate in the first place. What was most impressive ( _ not the size,  _ he told himself fervently), was the fact that he was erect in the first place; the unforgiving winds bore into Jon’s soul and he genuinely believes that he wouldn’t be able to get it up even if a thousand pretty women appeared before him with their chests bared. He would have assumed that the man must have a hundred layers of fur on him, if not for the fact that Jon had seen him with little to no layers at all before. 

“Keep your decency,” Jon requests, crawling into the depths of the flopping tent and giving it a once over from inside. The ceiling was coming in on them, hardly enough room to sit up himself, definitely would be none for Tormund; he had at least a foot on him, if not more. He would have found it slightly embarrassing had the man not been taller than half of Westeros to begin. 

Tormund scrambles his way into the tent, beside Jon, and has seemingly no care for his personal space, as per usual. He lays down, uncaring for the rocky and wet ground, uneven like the rest of the tent. He grins at Jon like he knows something that he doesn’t, and throws his arms behind his head, as if he were upon one of those floating beds that attached to trees in the warmer lands. 

“I’m going to check on the women and children,” Jon tells him. “You should check on all of your men. Make sure they are behaving.”

“They are your men too, now, Snow.” Jon looks down. Nobody has been calling him that recently; only _Jon_ or even sometimes _King’s Second_. Tormund notices his hesitance. “Should I still call you Snow?”

He sighs. He has no reply; no answer to that question that would not complicate both his and Tormund’s stance. Instead, he raises to his knees, and pushes the flaps to the tent open once more. Snowflakes flutter into the tight space. 

“You can call me your Crow,” he tells him, and drags himself out to the fortress.

*

Tormund is the King Beyond the Wall now, though politics have no place among the Free Folk. It is a lesson that Jon has to learn to live with once again. One of the women is sobbing in the corner of the fortress and there are several others who are comforting her. The children are either sleeping or playing in a small pile of burnt out, rotting firewood. When Jon approaches them slowly to ask what the matter had been, she sniffles and can’t bring herself to speak. Another of the women; indeed, the one that Jon had been admiring from his horse earlier on in the day, tells him that one of the men had breached the walls and had taken her around the back, touched her where she had not wanted and she feared that she was pregnant again. 

Her last pregnancy had been Hell, she told Jon, that she had lost the babe and almost her own life with it, and Jon is flaring with anger by the time it registers in his brain what had happened to her, when  _ he  _ was supposed to be protecting them. Could he do no right? 

He proposes to the ladies to bring her a cup or two of their fine warm milk and watch over her for the rest of the evening. Not wanting to impose his presence onto the women any further, he exits the fortress and does his best to not immediately draw his sword when he sees the man with the name that the poor woman had whimpered to him so softly. 

“Jakub!” he calls, his voice hoarse from trying to hold back his own tears. “Here. Now.”

The man is bigger than Jon is in almost every sense of the word. He towers over him in height and he has almost ten times the amount of muscle in his stature. Jon does not flinch.

“Do you think it makes you a man to conquer those who cannot fight back?” he asks, ripe for confrontation, hand at the ready on the hilt of his sword. “Sylvian did naught to you; nor can she defend herself against you. I do not like rapers.”

Jakub stares him down like he’s some sort of putrid pest. His fists look bigger than Jon’s entire face, yet he does not back down. He will not. He does not, not even when the lug replies, “That’s the whole point, innit; that they can’t defend themselves.”

A few men behind him laugh, and the smug look on his face makes Jon want to slash it off. 

“I am sure many women would be  _ willing _ . You needn’t go for one who is not.”

“Oh, you think they would, do ye?” he asks, eyes mischievously narrowing and blackened teeth bared. “Matter of y’r own opinion, pretty King?”

Tormund is the King Beyond the Wall now, though many of the Free Folk who have chosen to follow him have taken to calling Jon  _ King  _ as well. Jon is no fool; he knows that Jakub is doing so with little respect that is necessary for a King. His eyes are raking Jon in, inspecting every piece of him that he can with his beady eyes and tiny brain. 

Jon pulls on his sword so that the metal glints threateningly in the light of the rising moon peeking through the thick clouds. “Do not play with me, Jakub.”

“Not wi’out your allowin’, o’ course.”

Jon is this close,  _ this close  _ to snapping. He has had to put up with much worse than this man in his lifetime, but damned him if this was not annoying him more than he thought it would. 

“You’d speak to a King like that?” Jon hears, and by the Gods is he grateful for Tormund’s presence. It’s not that Jon couldn’t take the man by himself — he could, and ten more at the same time — but he is still new amongst the Wildlings; still yet to be trusted and accepted as one of their own. They had seen how he was with – what they call – the Kneelers, those who lived South of the Wall, and so many still regarded him as one. He was not yet one of their own, and if he were to maim a few of them before he becomes that, he’d become an outcast even within the outcasts.

“Giantsbane,” Jakub greets with a respectful nod of his head. “Your Crow ‘ere has a problem with how I get my cock wet.”

Jon glares at him, before turning to Tormund with a defiant edge. “He’s a raper. Self-proclaimed.”

Tormund just stares for a moment, taking in Jon’s stance and his passion for the situation. After a long silence is settled, he breathes in deeply, and asks, “Which one?”

“Sylvian,” Jon tells him, though he doesn’t believe it should matter  _ which one.  _

“Hm,” is the response that he receives, and he watches the large man nod for a moment, his eyes stuck on the icy ground, before he turns swiftly and directs his fist straight into the side of Jakub’s beefy face. Jakub stumbles backwards from the force of it and growls with anger as he feels his cheek. 

Jon knows that the man is going to fight back before he even steadies himself on his feet again, and is more than ready to provide his friend with backup, when he finds that he has no need to. From the direction of the fortress, a loud scream of “ _ Fucking cunt!”  _ is heard. The men barely have time to react to the cuss before three of the spearwives are on Jakub, and Jon immediately sees drawn blood. 

There’s a hand on his wrist and he’s being dragged back to the tent, though his eyes are still intent on the dagger that’s being plunged into the man’s crotch. Jon almost feels sorry for him, if not for believing in the law that all rapers should be castrated anyway. 

“They’re going to kill him,” Jon says. He’s unsure as to why he says it, but something had been compelling him to, as if to make sure it was real. 

“Aye,” Tormund says, crawling first into the tent. Jon follows. “We don’t like rapers much.”

“Understandable. Nor do I.” 

Tormund reaches behind him and grabs his — flask? It looks like some kind of horn, but Jon knows better than to ask (lest he causes the man to spiral into yet another exaggerated story) — grabs his flask, taking a deep drink from the contents. He offers it to Jon after a long glug, and it’s all Jon can do to refuse. He doesn’t drink now. He’s too scared of loosening his tongue.

“Are you tired, Crow?” he asks after a deep swallow. Jon watches his beard move as his large adam’s apple bobs underneath his skin. He looks down at his hands.

“It’s the cold,” he says. “My father – Ned Stark always said it brought fatigue.”

“You can go sleep, if you want.” He smiles, and raises his flask. “I’ll keep you warm.”

Jon knows that he will. There’s only one way to stay warm at night up here. Sharing body heat cannot be embarrassing anymore, it is so common and so necessary. Jon finds that he would rather be roomed with Tormund for this than one of the other men outside; the ones who look at him as though he’s a piece of fine meat. 

Another thing that had come as a surprise to Jon when confronted with the lawless community was that it meant that there was nothing that was really  _ taboo.  _ Here, whilst the men bedded women as was normal, the men bedded the men, and the spearwives sometimes bedded other women as well. 

Jon, his entire life, as well as being called  _ bastard  _ and other colourful words that made his fists clench at night, had been called  _ pretty.  _ He remembers it vividly, the Lord of Bones calling him pretty and telling Tormund that he’d probably been down on his knees for Jon. His cheeks flare up at the memory. Tormund had killed him for that. Was it really such a repulsive thought? 

Jon could picture it just fine. It did not make his skin crawl; definitely did not make him want to kill a man. He could see himself settling down on his knees on this uneven ground, random assortments of sticks and rocks digging into his skin and leaving him with colourful bruises. He was used to this, after all, having spent years on his knees whilst polishing his swords, or praying to the Seven. After a while, he’d found that he’d liked the look of bruises on his skin. 

He could imagine how Tormund’s large hands would feel buried in his mess of hair. Jon had always marvelled at the size of them; yet they were terribly intriguing. If his  _ hands  _ were that size, then how big would… How would  _ that  _ feel…?

He shakes his head urgently and takes a deep breath, looking back up into Tormund’s curious gaze. He knows that his cheeks are tinted; they have always been his dead giveaway. 

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “My mind is a devil.”

“Oh?” Tormund inquires, his mouth splitting into a grin. “You would like me to keep you warm, eh, Crow?” 

Jon frowns, shifting his hips and positioning himself to gain more distance between them. It’s almost impossible; the other man takes up so much room and the tent so small to begin with. 

“I’m going to sleep.” 

“I’ll join you. I’m going to go and fetch somethin’ first, so don’t go starting without me.” 

As he leaves, Jon watches, settling himself down and resting his head on his hands. The icy wind bites at his face as the flaps to the tent are left open, and he has half a mind to believe that he did it on purpose. All, probably, for some more alcohol. 

*

When Tormund comes back, Jon is halfway between a state of consciousness and unconsciousness, and groans in disapproval when the man returns almost twenty minutes later, letting in more of the frost along with him. 

“Must you?” Jon croaks out. 

“I asked you not to start without me!” he defends, and places whatever it was that he had retrieved down on the opposite side of the tent to Jon. 

“What did you get?”

“Shush,” he says. He wraps his arms around Jon’s body and presses his body flush to his back. 

He thinks it’s a record amount of time that he falls asleep in, with his friend’s scent plunging all around him, a mixture of sweat and beer and some kind of sweet meat.

He knows he is going to dream.

*

He knows that he dreams, yet of what, he is not sure. He awakes halfway through one that has him sweating, and when he wakes, he is still just as hot. It’s the first time that he’s been hot in a while. 

“Mm,” he hums, and there’s a heat in his groin that has him murmuring it again, and again, and they bleed into small “ _ Uh, uh, uh,”s. _

It’s not until he opens his eyes that he can make sense of it. It’s still dark out, yet light enough to look like a faint glimmer of sun has made its way over the horizon. Blue light floods the inside of the tent and when he opens his eyes, a whimper caught in his throat, he can just see the outline of something long and thick between his legs. That’s when he feels it, his senses catching up to him. There’s a thick thigh nuzzled between his own, nuzzled against his crotch and causing a raucous reaction that makes him slap a hand over his mouth. 

“Tormund,” he whispers harshly, bringing down his other hand and gripping the knee tightly.

There’s a grunt behind him, one that tells him that the man is still asleep, though his body most definitely is not. Jon can feel something poking his behind and he’s sure that it’s not the man’s flask. 

Tormund’s body moves against him again. Jon gasps, trying not to let shame manifest inside him as he relishes in the pleasure it brings him. It’s almost embarrassing. The last person that he had shared this kind of passion with was his late aunt, and that had been far too long ago by now. He’d been needing this. Far too ashamed to touch himself, and always rooming with another man, he had not even had a chance. 

“ _ Gods, _ ” he gasps, finding himself reciprocating the movement of his hips against the man behind him. He can feel his toes curling in the depths of his large shoes designed to combat the cold, and tilts his head back, his mouth toppling open. 

He hears a soft rumble, and doesn’t complain when he feels a set of lips settle themselves onto his neck. His skin is being sucked on, he realises, and can only hope that the brute doesn’t leave a mark on his skin for all of the women to gawk at and for all of the men to make fun of. But at the moment, he can’t bring himself to tell the man to stop, or slow down, because that sounds like some torture. 

“Little Crow,” he whispers, breath hot against Jon’s skin, slick with sweat and pumping above his speedy pulse. “Let us see how  _ little  _ you truly are, yes?”

Jon is nodding, but Tormund’s hand is reaching into the depths of his trousers already, cupping his erection through his undergarments. Jon preens at the contact, huffing a moan of approval, and he can feel the other man’s smirk against his flesh. He cups Jon’s cock like he’s done it before, though Jon just  _ knows _ that it’s different for him. His member is not small, and that is not him being a brag, but it is nowhere  _ near  _ the beast that Tormund keeps with him; a third leg that he keeps hidden within the thickness of his fur coat. 

He presses his behind back against it at the mere thought, and feels his face heat up impossibly more so as Tormund elicits a low chuckle, sending vibrations through his bones and straight to his cock. 

“You like hearing me?” he asks; he must have felt Jon’s erection jerk at the noise, and he gives it an experimental tug before delving downwards, fondling his balls. Jon chokes out a sigh. 

Then his hand is  _ inside  _ Jon’s underwear and he feels so lightheaded that he may faint on him; but the adrenaline pumping through his body has him writhing, throwing his head back against Tormund’s shoulder and biting his lip so hard that he fears it may bleed. He wraps his large hand around his girth and begins to stroke him, leaving no room for subtlety or delicacy. His actions are rough and fast and cause a cacophony of whines to tumble out of Jon’s mouth; he wasn’t even aware that such noises existed. 

His other hand finds its way to his bare buttocks, and that’s when Jon jumps, shaking his head urgently. 

“No,” he says, “Not there.”

That feels like passing some kind of invisible line that he’s drawn up for himself. He supposed that he’s still clinging on too tightly to the laws of the lands that he’s used to; that going  _ there  _ will breach too much of a moral code that he’d drawn up with Westeros and himself. 

“It’s alright,” Tormund tells him calmly, not pressing, and starts instead to rub Jon’s lower back. It’s relaxing, even as his body goes turgid with the man’s other hand; still rampant on his dick. “Trust me. It feels mighty good. People wouldn’t do it, otherwise, eh?”

Jon’s breath catches in his throat and he reaches up, pressing a hand on the bicep of the chaotic arm; he’s going to cum soon. When his arm stops moving, Jon turns back to him, and something about the movement takes Tormund aback, and he can’t stop staring. 

“We’ve no oil,” Jon says.

“Ah,” Tormund says. “Got you there.”

And the man retrieves the item that he had previously fetched earlier on, when Jon was half-asleep and freezing, and he can’t help but roll his eyes at him. He stares at the jar, then back to his friend, and says, “You were hopeful.”

“Oops.” He grins, then his smile falls, and he gazes at Jon with a serious intensity. “We don’t have to do nothing,” he tells him. “I told you, I don’t like no rapers.”

Jon relaxes slightly, his breathing coming back to him naturally. He smiles. “Go on,” he tells him. “We’ll see whether it’s all talk or not.”

Tormund is almost entirely too eager when he pulls the lid off the jar; it almost goes everywhere, had Jon not lifted his hand to keep it upright. He dips two of his meaty fingers into the oil before setting it down where it had been previously, out of Jon’s sight, and slides his hand back down the back of Jon’s trousers. He feels his heart rate increase impossibly so as he feels one of those two fingers delve between his cheeks and begin to circle the previously untouched bud of skin.

“Gods,” he murmurs, adjusting his leg so that the man behind him could have better access. “Forgive me.”

“If the Gods ain’t intend for men to do this,” Tormund says, “Why’d they make it feel so fucking good?” And with that, he pushes his slicked finger inside, breaching the ring of muscle and making Jon gasp. 

It didn’t feel  _ good.  _ But it didn’t feel  _ bad.  _ This was the general consensus that he’d come to, as Tormund waits for Jon to give him the go ahead. It was more of a state of discomfort; something foreign entering his body and his body not knowing how to react to it. 

“Another?” he asks. Jon nods. 

With the second finger came pain. Jon sucks in a harsh breath at the intrusion, shaking his head and pressing his lips together so as to not make anymore embarrassing sounds. “It hurts,” he complains. “Is it supposed to hurt?”

“It’s that it hurts that we’re doin’ this in the first place, otherwise my cock would be in you already,” he explains, and despite the discomfort that he’s experiencing, the words send a shot of arousal down to his cock. 

Tormund allows his fingers to dive in deeper, and once he has an idea that Jon is more comfortable (the pain had subsided once he had gotten used to it, but he was never one to have a low pain tolerance anyway), he spreads his large fingers out into a scissor, making him hiss once again. The man kisses his head in an apology but continues to do it, stretching out his hole like it was a woman’s. Jon whimpers, wishing for the pain to subside as it had done beforehand, when the fingers are being withdrawn.

“What are you doing?” he asks. “I’m not ready for, for —”

“I know that!” Tormund replies heartily, picking up the oil once again and this time dipping in a third finger. “Trust me,” he says, at the look of worry on Jon’s face. “It’ll be worth it.”

_ It better be,  _ Jon thinks to himself as this time, three fingers are inserted into him, and he takes deep breaths to try and cope with it. He isn’t too sure that there actually  _ is _ any point to any of this; that it can’t possibly feel as good as people in the shadows have made it out to be. He can only hope that this isn’t how it feels for all of the women around the world; he can only pray that this isn’t what Ygritte has felt, though she was definitely the type to express any discomfort she harboured with an abundance of swear words and blasphemy. If this is what Daenerys had felt, too, he was sure that she would have stopped him, directed him to something better. He seemed to have a type; headstrong women who knew what they wanted. 

But it stung to think of either of them more than the pressure stretching his entrance stung, so he tries to bring his focus back to the present, and shifts his hips backwards. Doing so causes the fingers to breach deeper into him, and when Tormund next tilts his appendages, he brushes over something that brings such an unholy noise out of Jon that he feels the need to send an apology to the Seven. 

“What,” he grunts, “What was that?”

He can feel Tormund smirk against him again as he begins to nibble on Jon’s ear. “Was wonderin’ when I’d get to it,” he whispers, low enough to send shivers down his spine. He does the same movement once again and Jon can’t help but arch his back, toes curling once more. 

It feels like Tormund is just teasing him by the fifth time he brushes over whatever it is, and Jon is too proud yet to break down and beg. But, Gods, if this is how good mere  _ fingers  _ felt up there, he could only imagine how it would feel to have a cock up there. Tormund’s would reach it and beyond, he was sure, longer and thicker than his fingers. That sensation was well worth the pain that he had felt, reducing it to feeling like only a few brief moments of discomfort. 

“You want me in you?” Tormund asks, taunting. “You want me buried so in your ass you can’t walk tomorrow?”

_ “Mm, _ ” he groans in reply, still biting his bottom lip. He can taste blood.

“Say it.”

His lip is released. He gasps, and breathes, “Yes. Yes. Please.”

“Say it, Crow.”

“Gods, I want you,” he huffs, inhaling deeply and pressing back further into his fingers, still deep inside him. “I want you in me. Fuck me,  _ please,  _ will you fuck me?”

Tormund has no response to that, only pulls his fingers out of Jon’s ass and sits up on his knees. His head brushes the top of the tent. He utilises his strength as he grabs Jon by the hips and flips him over from his side to lying on his front. Tormund grabs hold of the hem of the trousers and undergarments that block his passage and yank them down over his ass and his thighs with the strength of a brute. 

Jon’s about to remind him of the oil again when he realises that what he’s feeling against his entrance isn’t Tormund’s cock at all; it’s his  _ tongue.  _ It’s already wet and poking curiously at him, and before Jon has time to even gasp, he’s pushing it past the ring of muscle and this,  _ this,  _ Jon finds that he fucking  _ loves.  _ His mouth opens without his realising and out tumbles a litany of dirty words, and he could picture Old Nan in his mind’s eye, clutching her chest and keeling over if she’d ever heard such things come out of a boy’s mouth. 

The tongue erases all thoughts of Old Nan, though, delving inside of him and fucking him open with it. It’s wet, and Jon knows that it should be absolutely disgusting on both ends, pushing the man away from such a place. But all he does end up doing is arching his back further, pressing his cheek to the bumpy bottom of the tent and pushing his ass back against the man’s mouth. 

The graze of beard against his cheeks is one that, whilst new and slightly overbearing, brings a sense of playfulness to the strange equation. Tormund’s large hands smack themselves onto Jon’s rear, spreading his indecency further, and he can feel his fingernails leaving short-lasting marks there, crescent dips in his paled skin. 

“He likes it,” Tormund murmurs excitedly. “Good. ‘Tis one of my favourite midnight snacks.”

Jon feels his hips jerk downwards in desperation; needing desperately to feel some friction on his cock. He was dripping at this point, he knew it, onto their previously somewhat clean (dry, at least) floor that they would have to sleep on for however many nights. The head of his dick brushes over the ground and he would have found the bumps and edges painful if not for the sweet release of actually having  _ something  _ touch it again. Tormund had left him in such a state close to orgasm that when he had stopped his hand, he had almost made Jon yelp into the abyss that continued over the edge that he had been so cruelly brought to and left at. 

He had been lucky to get all of the embarrassment out of the way, he figures, as the man begins to suck on the opening, rendering his voice useless and his body almost limp. His thoughts of some kind of release are thrown out of the window as Tormund yanks him up once again, pulling his hips away from the floor. His tongue delves somehow deeper. He must be soaking, he thinks,  _ actually  _ like a woman now, and he whimpers helplessly at the thought.

“You’re going t’ cum on my cock, Little Crow,” he preens, pulling away from his hole only to bite playfully at Jon’s cheek. He feels his grin against his skin.

“Best — Best be quick, then,” Jon retorts, though the kick of his words is drowned by the breathlessness that accompanies them. He stares back as he hears some movement, and finds Tormund rising to his knees. One hand is reaching for the oil, and the other is roughly shoving down his trousers to his knees. Jon gawks.

Tormund is impossibly big – so much so that Jon finds it hard to believe that it is possible to fit inside of  _ anything,  _ let alone his virgin ass. He stares openly as the man begins to drizzle oil onto the shaft, and starts to slowly stroke it, spreading the oil around generously, making it sloppy and dripping. He’s hard, almost as hard as Jon is himself, and he feels a shoot of pride burst through him as he recalls that Tormund had had no contact to his crotch at all — it was Jon alone that had him aching so. 

“Think you can take him?” Tormund asks cockily, placing his hands onto the small of Jon’s back and circling his thumbs on the dimples just above his rump. He begins to slide his dick slowly between his thumbs, thrusting forwards, teasing Jon with a taste of what it’s going to be like. 

After a moment or two in which Jon can practically feel the heat from his stare burning into him, the man slips his erection between his cheeks and begins to slide the head of it over Jon’s entrance. Every time that Jon believes that he’s finally going to push inside of him, he does not, and instead allows the caress of the passageway bid his pleasure. Jon can feel himself becoming impatient.

“Are you going to stick the damn thing inside of me or not?” he blurts out, and, embarrassed of sounding too eager, clears his throat and says, “I suppose you were all talk all along.”

This appears to stir something inside of the man. “What?” he asks lowly.

“I bet you could not make even a virgin cum with this,” he accuses, pressing back and biting his lip as he feels it slide against his opening once again. 

“I’ve made more virgins cum than you have relatives,” Tormund tells him. “Dead or alive.”

And that must be an exaggeration, he thinks, because the Starks have been descended from the First Men, and the Targaryen bloodline was one of the widest and longest and twisted that he had heard of. But the words flare something within, and he allows a smirk of his own to grow upon his face. 

“Prove it,” he taunts, “Prove it to me.”

That seems to be the very breaking point for the man poised above him, as not a second later, Jon can feel the strong pressure of the tip of Tormund’s dick pressing against his entrance. Not a second later, his sharp gasps overshadow Tormund’s low groans as his cock is sheathed inside of him, and Jon is overcome with the intense, almost blinding pain that he thought he had gotten past.

He calls a curse and throws back a hand to stop the man from proceeding any further for the moment. He does so. Though Tormund has mighty thick fingers for a man, one is nothing compared to the sheer girth of his erection. Not even three of his meaty fingers could compare to this stretch, he deduces, 

Had he felt vulnerable with the man’s fingers or tongue inside of him, then little could have prepared him for how it felt to have  _ this.  _ He was releasing little whimpers as he willed away the tears from his eyes and tried not to think about what Tormund could do to him. Not even just in this moment (as whilst the other man is a brute with strength, Jon is no faery, and he is one of the most skilled swordsmen in all of Westeros (and beyond the Wall)), but afterwards; crippling his reputation amongst the Free Folk, making them think that this was what earned him the place to command them. If news of this endeavour ever got back to Sansa, or Arya, or Bran… Gods, Bran. He would be sworn under the law to imprison Jon for sodomy. 

But Tormund is still rubbing small circle with his thumbs onto his lower back, and he is inexplicably comforted. He has been through numerous wars with the man who holds all power in this tent at the second, and he would trust him with his life. 

“Go,” he whispers to him.

“You sure?” he whispers back. “Take all the time in the world. It ain’t no easy thing.”

Jon huffs a small smile and bites down hard on his lip as he takes the matter to his own, pushing his body backwards so that he sinks deeper inside of him. He hears Tormund sigh with a deep satisfaction, and he tightens his hold on Jon’s hips, so hard that he briefly fears that they might leave bruises, not that anybody would be able to see them. 

Tormund pushes himself along even further inside of him, and until the moment where he finally,  _ finally  _ bottoms out and his balls hit Jon’s own, there is nothing more on Jon’s mind other than,  _ how can he possibly have more to keep going? _ But he evidently did have more, and more, and more, and Jon is surprised that he isn’t dead by the time that it’s all inside of him. 

“You alright?” Tormund asks gently, leaning down to kiss the back of Jon’s neck, adding saliva to the already sweaty skin.

“A— A moment, please,” he requests in turn, gripping onto his fur coat for a source of some comfort. “Only one other object has been so deep inside of my body, and afterwards, I died.”

“Well, you’re safe with me,” he tells him. “Else I contact that Lord o’ Light cunt.”

Jon can’t help but huff out a laugh at that, one that he feels deep in his gut, and he groans a second later. “You may move,” he allows. “But… Slowly. Please. Try and find what it was that you seeked out with your fingers.”

“You liked that?” Tormund asks, less of a genuine question and more of a low growl in his ear. Jon feels the veins along his cock pulling out of him, and releases a long, sharp moan that is sure to reach the ears of the men in the tents around them when he launches himself back inside. He hears a short, cocky laugh, and pulls backwards once more, only to fuck back into him again. 

It shouldn’t feel good, Jon tells himself over and over, as the cock is plunged inside of him deep enough to make him feel slightly dizzy. But it  _ does,  _ and Jon knows that he’s probably going straight to Hell, but if going to Heaven means that he’d never get to experience  _ this  _ ever again in his life, he’d rather forego it. There’s the one spot inside of him that the man just seems to be attacking without mercy, and Jon had never known himself to lose control like this before. His eyes roll backwards without his saying so; his mouth drops open like a fish; his toes are curling more than his hair in the wet. He can feel himself dripping onto his clothes and where he was to sleep, yet does nothing to try and stop it. He can’t see a point to it. He’s making a mess with his mouth, too, leaking saliva and wetting his face like a babe. 

His cheek rubs harshly against the floor as Tormund rocks him back and forth, over and over, creating a friction that might have left a visible burn on his cheek had it not been for the coverage of his beard. The man’s fingers dig into the rump of his ass to slam him back into his hips, forgetting all sense of the words  _ slow _ and  _ gentle.  _

“ _ Gods, _ yes,” he chokes out, his hands twisting into fists. “Yes, like that—!”

“‘Sound ever so pretty, Little Crow,” he rumbles. One of his hands slide up Jon’s back, exposing his skin, and the cold would have distracted him had he not been so furiously hot and sweaty underneath the clothing; it was almost a relief to feel some refreshment. 

He makes a pleasing mumble in return and allows his body to be rocked forwards and backwards further. It is a form of submitting that Jon had never thought himself possible; years of being thought of as a bastard, as less than his brothers and sisters and hated by his step-mother had forced him to create a strong sense of self-worth, of knowing what can and can’t be done, and what he would and would not allow. Being fucked, Jon had always assumed, was the upmost sign of submission that he could think of. Bending the Knee, you may give up your obligations and your loyalty, but this? Jon almost feels — broken. He thinks, with some contempt, that it hurts to think, and that his mind may be broken by such pleasure. He is pinned to the ground by a man who is doing what he so pleases with his body — whilst he does have Jon’s full and enthusiastic consent, Jon cannot help but… resent the position that he’s put himself into. As he bites down another moan that threatens to bubble up and out of his mouth, he determines in a very split second, that he would do well to have some more control. He is not a man who is easy.

He lies here of his own accord; not as less, but as an equal to the man plunging deeply inside of him, and Tormund would do best to know that.

“Stop,” he pants, and Tormund does so, yet not without a slight rumble of protest. His cock is halfway through a thrust, not quite at Jon’s sweet-spot but enough to make him still feel full and stretched. 

“What?” he asks, reaching forward and brushing his oiled fingers across Jon’s cheek. The action drives him in deeper again. Jon sucks in a gasp, and smiles. 

“I want to try something.”

The words could not seem to have intrigued or excited his partner further. Tormund scurries, nodding, away from Jon, and slowly, carefully pulls out of his body. He sits back, the tip of his head grazing the ceiling of the tent. Jon gazes at him. The man was truly impressive in many senses of the word. Jon would deign to call him a ‘gentle giant’ if not for the fact that Jon knew very well and very personally that the man was anything but gentle when he wanted to be. 

Taking a breath to calm himself before he proceeds, Jon pushes himself up off of the floor in one swift motion. He stays on his hands and knees, ever exposed, so as not to dirty his skin on the ground, and reaches for the oil. Tormund passes it to him urgently. 

Tormund’s face is a treasure when Jon dips his fingers into the oil and reaches backwards, skirting his fingertips over the slightly sore entrance. Jon watches him as he pushes one inside; his pupils seem larger than he, and his breath comes in short, heavy bursts of mist in front of them both. 

“ _ Oh, _ ” he says at the sight, “Oh, oh,  _ yes. _ ”

He urges forwards, but Jon shakes his head quickly and he finds himself sitting down again. One hand lifts and begins to stroke his nearly neglected dick, still out and still interested. Jon finds himself staring. He pushes in two more fingers. They’re nothing compared to the girth of what he has just endured. 

But he’d wanted to be sure. He’d wanted to be well oiled. Call him paranoid; he would far rather be as wet as a woman and safe than drier than the East and bleeding. 

After some few moments of intense staring at one another, Jon grabs the jar of oil again and crawls towards Tormund. The man looks hungry. Greedy, in fact. Jon wishes to sate it.

He pours some of the oil onto the palm of his hand and uses his dry one to slide up Tormund’s thigh. The other tentatively goes to the penis in front of him. Tormund’s own hand stops as Jon’s approaches it, and he elicits a huff of satisfaction once he feels Jon’s fingers around it. Jon’s eyes flicker up to his face. 

“What is it?” Tormund coos. His head is resting against the wall of the tent, denting it. “Thinking about a kiss?”

Jon, despite himself, despite the crudeness of the situation that he has found himself in, blushes. He doesn’t say a word in response. If he had been thinking about planting his lips onto the mocking ones before him, he wasn’t going to let him know that. 

He spreads the oil generously onto the length of his cock, which was already wet, but Jon had wanted to be sure. He may get carried away with himself, applying pressure with his thumb and the slit and skirting down to his balls, but Tormund doesn’t comment on that. Thankfully. 

Jon gulps. He straightens his back and steadies himself on his knees, eye level with Tormund now, and he places his shaking hands onto the fur-covered, broad shoulders. The man settles his large hands onto Jon’s waist and it’s almost comforting. 

“Sweetheart,” Tormund whispers with admiration laced in his quiet tone. He’s taking in the sight of him, Jon can tell, of his cock leaking in front of him and his face so flushed and ready. “King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Six,” Jon breathes. “And, no. That’s not me.”

“King,” Tormund whispers again, “King of Westeros.” He digs his thumbs into Jon’s hips urges him downwards, until Jon can feel the tip of his dick against his entrance once again. 

“ _ Tormund _ ,” he pants, grinding back against the member, and he throws his arms around the larger man’s neck. “Do it.”

Tormund plunges himself into the man on his lap and Jon’s head whips back at breakneck speed, his jaw dropping and eyes too wide. He digs his fingernails deep into what little skin on his partner’s neck that he can locate. He relishes in Tormund’s small groans, unaware of the little sounds that spill from his own throat. It’s all so distant to him, at this moment; like an out of body experience. He can feel the  _ stretch  _ and the  _ pleasure _ and, fuck, the pleasure is seeping to every inch of his body; he can feel it in his fingers and all the way to his fuzzy brain – in his toes and in his gut. He didn’t know that it was possible to feel this good. 

Tormund’s fingers bruise his hips as he begins to bounce Jon in his lap. Jon can feel every ridge of the man inside him, every vein as it slides in – and out – and in again, like an orchestrated and practiced routine, and Jon feels like both a part of the act, and the audience. 

He likes it so much better like this, he thinks with what little power he has over his own conscience at the moment. He likes being able to see his partner; Tormund’s face twisted with satisfaction and his mouth heaved open to leave to pant his rugged words of praise and lust. 

Jon pulls him in for a filthy kiss, uncaring about his mocking words. It’s just so, so  _ good.  _ His body rears with it; his hand slaps against Tormund’s cheek to bring him in nearer. It’s parted lips and clattering teeth, fighting with their tongues and spit smearing over their beards. He takes Tormund’s tongue into his mouth as he feels another strong thrust inside of him and he gasps against it, before seeping his fingers deeply into the man’s fiery hair and breathing hotly into his mouth.

“Perfect,” he hears the bigger man whisper against his wet lips. “Dreamt about fuckin’ this ass for  _ years,  _ little crow. My crow.”

“ _ Gods, _ ” Jon preens to his words, pressing his tongue deep into his mouth. He hums roughly as he feels the cock brush the bundle of nerves inside of him again, and he shakes his head. “ _ Harder _ ,” he pleads. 

A low rumble of laughter. It makes Jon’s cock twitch between them. “Harder?” he asks teasingly. “Alright. Hold on.”

Jon does. He wraps his arms tightly around the man’s neck and brings their chests flush against one another, and Jon barely has a moment’s notice before the hands on his hips  _ truly  _ begin to ache. He braces himself, knees locking, as Tormund begins to rock him back and forth on his dick as if he weighs less than a feather. It makes Jon feel powerless; completely in the submission of this man before him, being used as though he were nothing more than a hole. 

“Hard enough for you?” he asks deeply into his ear. “Do you like it?”

“Yes,” he answers quickly. “Fuck, yes — Love it,  _ love it _ , so fucking  _ good;  _ why is it so  _ fucking good? _ ”

“That’s just me, sweet.” 

Jon’s moaning without thinking now. There’s no chance in the seven hells that their men won’t be aware of what they’ve been doing deep in this cold night. Even if they had all been asleep, he had no doubt that his whines would have been louder to them than a direwolf howl. He’ll deal with the men tomorrow; their predatory eyes and wandering hands, outlandish words and unruly behaviour. 

He’s never been sheathed like this. He won’t ever forget it. 

When Tormund withdraws a hand from his hip, Jon is only momentarily surprised to see that he’s just as capable with only one. Jon is still being bounced and rocked with just one hand controlling his entire body weight. He takes his large fingers and wraps them around Jon’s neglected dick, smearing the little beads of his cum at the head over the whole of it. He makes a hole with his hand and Jon unconsciously bucks up into it. While he’s being rocked backwards onto the cock that’s impaling him, he gets rocked forwards to so that he can fuck Tormund’s fist. He can’t handle it.

“Tor —” he pants, head rolling. “ _ Tormund _ . I’m going to cum, I can’t – I can’t stop it, fuck,  _ fuck, fuck! _ ”

“Do it,” Tormund says to him. “Cum for me. Cum on my cock.”

Jon can barely hold himself back for ten more seconds. Underneath the cloud of his pleasure, he’s somewhat embarrassed at the short amount of time that it takes for him to become unravelled. His toes curl and he leans in once more, kissing the man deeply as his hips jerk out of his control. He fucks the man’s fist and bites down on the man’s lip as he inwardly squeals at the feel of him inside of him once more, and he spills out over Tormund’s fist and Tormund’s gorgeous fur coat, probably ruining it (though, he assumes it’s not for the very first time that Tormund has gotten this kind of substance over his clothes.) 

His orgasm is a hit of a drug that Jon has never tried. It’s so new and so fresh and so fucking wonderful that it takes him far too long to actually come back to his senses. When he does so, he’s still being rocked, though in a far more gentle manner, and he feels limp beyond anything. He still feels so full, and he’s cozy more than anything against the soft fur, nuzzling his face. His mouth hurts and is still wet around his lips. He’s just conscious enough to feel the pulsation of Tormund’s hips and the odd sensation of cum spilling out into his behind. He couldn’t describe it if he tried to, or if he were to write it down in a book. 

“Fucking Gods,” Tormund grunts quietly, his breathing coming quickly, his chest rising and falling underneath Jon’s head. He pulls his dick out of Jon and gently tucks it back into his clothing, then does the same with Jon’s. He clearly thinks that Jon had passed out due to the intensity of it. Jon couldn’t tell if that was true or not. 

Tormund settles them down into a spooning position on the floor and Jon tries to help by shifting his hips when Tormund pulls up his trousers. He’s never felt so worn out and yet so satisfied. He could compare this to the fuzz of the brain after winning a war, or the pleased sensation after finishing a hearty meal. He smiles when Tormund leans over him to kiss him again. 

He’ll think about what it means in the morning. 

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on twitter @greyclouding !


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